In the helpful haze of gratuitous gratitude that need never had have been.
The bastion is ajar, no it’s open just a crack. Fallen star, fallen star.
Get back, get back. Get back!
In the goblet beneath sweater weather the chain gang quench their thirst and bonds.
Their masters are nowhere to be seen nowhere to be found. Quarry, quarry– go to ground.
In the bioshock, in the midst of the mirror, in the last light of a fallen star in the fires of the red bird.
Majestic creatures flap their wings, and not a single sound can be heard.
Fly far, far far away.
Attic anew — theatrics aside. I’m deep blue, and radioactive.
What’s the first button you push?
Why is this construct deep in Earth, I’m left wondering.
It’s something of a rush.
What, oh what to do, in light of what you do next.
We’ll only have had made it quite so far. What everyone expects.
Why must our flight be thrown into reverse.
Irretrievable diminishing light that cannot be rehearsed.
Why must the skies be colored just so?
And surrender you to the shapes I’ll never know.
Now dearest Alice, now you know. — Hatter